


Move towards life

by oooknuk



Series: Try a little tenderness [5]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 04:21:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10779477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oooknuk/pseuds/oooknuk
Summary: Methos and Duncan go camping, five years after Joe's death.





	Move towards life

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: The most vanilla of sex, the mildest of bad language, and schmoop. Really unlike most of my stuff.

"Jesus, it's so fucking _hot_ ," Methos said, dropping onto the couch.

"Cue the usual 'Mac, how did you talk me into coming out to this gawdforsaken hellhole?' speech. Here," Mac said, grinning at his sweating friend.

Methos took the cold tinnie from his hand and rolled it across his forehead before taking a slurp. "You're a life saver. And how _did_ you talk me into it again? The thermometer hits forty-five degrees, my brain fries, my memory goes. I'm very oooold, MacLeod," he said plaintively, then spoiled the effect by taking another long swing from the beer can and belching heartily. "Damn, I needed that."

"Meet my friend, the grub," Mac said, still grinning.

"Local colour, my man."

"I've never met an Aussie with manners that bad, Methos."

"That's because they're all on their best behaviour around you, Mac. The girls want into your pants and the boys are scared to death of you."

Mac refused to rise to the bait. "The same goes for you, you know that."

It was completely true that Mac had created something of a sensation when he'd opened his gym cum martial arts dojo in Caboolture. His women's defence class had a waiting list of six months and after a couple of demonstration matches, and a very public challenge in a pub one night by a couple of the local jack-the-lads which he had defused without injury and the total humiliation of the aggressors, the men's classes were always full as well.

Methos had caused an equal sensation when he had joined Mac in his enforced exile from Europe, taking up a partnership in the business, and taking over the granny flat attached to Mac's five-bedroom brick home. Since the dojo was built on the same four hectare block as the house, Mac's students had quickly become extremely curious about the quiet, good looking man they saw wandering around the property, running the office, or helping with equipment maintenance.

Things had got a little out of hand when Methos had agreed to help out with the demand for classes, running a few beginner sessions. The subsequent interest he had created in the female clients had driven both men slightly crazy, and Mac's well-intentioned attempt to defuse things by hinting that Methos was gay and still grieving for his dead lover had led to an intolerable effusion of sympathy and kindly concern, backed up by daily deliveries of cakes, fruit and hand-made clothing. Worse, it had only enhanced Methos' appeal to both the women _and_ the men. The frustrated older Immortal had threatened to tell everyone that he and _Mac_ were lovers and had only with much grovelling and appeasing consented to ride the wave of attention out.

Things had settled down. Now Methos attracted the same longing looks Mac did, but the flow of cakes, pikelets, chocolate crackles, boxes of mangoes, chokoes, tomatoes, avocadoes, water melons and painted and dyed t-shirts had slowed to a mere trickle, which they both endured for the sake of the business and for good relations with their neighbours. Mac suspected Methos rather liked the attention, but he was definitely uninterested in even the most casual relationship with any of the students.

"Yeah," Methos was saying, "but you encourage them." He tossed the can towards the recycling bin, stood and stripped off his t-shirt. "I'm going for a swim - you coming?"

"Give me ten minutes - I want to put the perch into the marinade."

"You fuss too much over fish, Mac. It's too good to muck around with," Methos grumbled as he headed out the door.

"You always eat it," Mac sang out after him, then shook his head. Methos was always bitching, but never serious.

Moving out to Australia for the first time had been a wrench for Mac, however necessary it had been after the unfortunate and horribly public accidental death he'd suffered three years ago in Paris. Methos had helped him discreetly disappear, and arranged the mothballing of those assets he couldn't move down under. Looking back, Mac supposed that he shouldn't have been surprised that his joking suggestion a few months later that Methos quit complaining about the lousy weather in England and join him in Queensland, had been met by a vidmail announcing that Methos was going to do just that, and asking if could he stay with Mac until he found a place of his own. That place had never actually materialised. Methos had been bunking with him now for nearly two years.

He had, at first, religiously respected MacLeod's territory, sticking to his comfortable, small flat, and being surprisingly diffident when he made use of the laundry or other parts of the house Mac was really only too happy to share. But gradually, under Mac's assiduous invitations, and drawn to the company of his fellow Immortal and old friend, Methos had spent more and more time in Mac's space, eating with him, watching digis together, talking about the business and spending time swimming and working out at the same time Mac did.

It had been something Mac had welcomed for his own sake, but even more for Methos'. The older Immortal was lonely. Never part of a social whirl, he had become a near-recluse when his beloved Joe had died five years ago, and had had no one in his life since then. Unlike Mac, he was happy to live alone rather than endure a series of short-lived connections with a mortal he didn't love.

In fact, he seemed the most content he had been in five years, and it was deeply satisfying to Mac to see him relaxed and happy, slipping into the Australian lifestyle as if born to it, running the dojo's accounts and office with quiet, transparent efficiency, acting as a remote tutor for two of the several Brisbane universities, and teaching the odd special class in the studio. He was very good with the children - there was nearly as long a waiting list for his RugRat sessions as there were for Mac's women's classes. He paid rent from his share of the dojo profits, and lived off his small salary and not so small investments, hidden and spread across a dozen identities in five separate countries.

Now Mac finished covering the fish in the lime, mango and ginger marinade he had perfected over the last two years, wiped his hands and walked out the back, leaning on the back door and looking out to where Methos was already freestyling his way confidently up and down the pool, his bum flashing in and out of the water. Swimming togs were something else that had disappeared along with the division of territory - Methos had only worn them in deference to Mac's perceived (and non-existent) sensibilities and had been shed at the first hint that Mac preferred to swim _au naturel_ too.

It really was unbearably hot - the heat wave had gone on for too long, and was not just hard to put up with, but becoming lethal. Mac had cancelled classes until further notice - even with air-conditioning in all the workout rooms, he didn't want to encourage people to travel and exercise in these crippling temperatures. The pools in nearly every backyard were literally life-savers, and almost the entire population headed to the coasts at every opportunity.

The sun was going down, which was something, but that only meant a slight reduction in the heat, and the mosquitoes and other insects which rose like suffocating clouds at times made sunset and the nights a trial at this time of year. Methos had more than once joked they should just move into the pool and sleep on li-los for the summer.

What was he waiting for? Mac wondered, stripping off his shorts and singlet, tossing them through the laundry door into the hamper and running across the brick paving, diving into the water, arms arrowed over his head in the approved manner. The water was barely cool enough for him, but it was better than the air. When he came up to the surface, Methos had stopped to watch him. "Fuck, it's like swimming in blood," Mac complained.

"Did you ever imagine when you were in Paris, whingeing about warm pool water?"

"Hell, no." Mac hadn't planned on moving across the globe, but he was more than glad to have done so. European winters had become a real trial over the last twenty or thirty years - long, cold, wet, and what was worse, the summers were hardly better. Methos adored the heat, even if the current heat wave was sapping his energy the same as everyone else. "Any news on when they think it will break?"

"Not before the weekend. Looks like it will be cooler for Christmas day."

Christmas. Fuck. Mac had been trying, and largely succeeding in forgetting about it (the one thing he hadn't got used to was blistering heat on Christmas Day). He had ambivalent, not to say painful feelings about the festival, and the way Australians celebrated it was so different from his experiences and his wishes, that he'd managed to ignore it. Methos was planning to take him into central Brisbane for a meal for his birthday, but the holiday four days later, he hadn't thought about at all. Until now.

"Mac?" Methos was treading water and looking at him with a frown. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm great. Race you to the far end?"

Methos was secretly very competitive under his 'don't give a shit' attitude, and Mac enjoyed exploiting that instinct as often as he could in the pool and in the dojo. The old man made him work for his victory, and was only a head behind him as he reached the edge.

Methos hauled himself up onto the edge of the pool. "Ouch, ouch, ouch," he complained as his butt hit the burning hot bricks, and slid back into the water. "You could cook those perch on that!"

"You sure could. Want to try?"

"Hmmm, chlorine flavoured fish for dinner. No, I think I'll pass." He wiped water out of his eyes and blew a few stray drops out of his mouth. "We should see if we can improve the design of the dojo to cut down the heat - even if the electricity for the air-conditioning is free, it's not nice for the customers."

"What do you suggest?"

"I've been looking into it - the insulation is good, but could be improved, and we could put deciduous vines up the west facing walls. That would give us the bonus of free fruit too."

Mac groaned. "More fruit? My colon's never been so well-exercised in my entire life since you moved in."

Methos had made a fetish of tropical gardening once he'd discovered the previous owners of Mac's property had planted quite a few trees, and they hadn't bought a piece of fruit or a vegetable in over a year, between what he grew and what they'd been given. "But Mac, a grape vine over the walls would look fantastic. And we could have more passionfruit, you like those."

Mac held up his hands. "Anything you want, Methos, as long as I don't have to help."

"Wouldn't dream of asking, MacLeod."

"So, what else?"

"Well, Steven thought we could include running water and fountains, as the Moors did."

Steven was a local garden designer, and Methos' only other close friend apart from Mac. "Wouldn't that be expensive? Not to mention close us down for a while?"

"Um, possibly. It's just an idea - it'd make the air more pleasant, generate breezes, and cool the air down." He grinned. "I suppose you don't want to hear about Sally's idea of wandering around spraying perfume over the patrons."

"Uh, no." The thought of Steven's motherly, ample wife spreading floral stinks everywhere didn't exactly appeal. "Do you want to work out a cost analysis of the more sensible ideas?"

"With you and me doing the work, or hiring it in?"

"Better work out both, if we keep on this busy, I won't have time, nor will you. Uh, that's assuming you plan on staying and teaching?"

"Want to get rid of me, Mac?" Methos said lightly before launching out with a graceful backwards glide through the water. Mac swam after him and they reached the other side together.

"I just didn't want to assume you wanted to keep up the teaching, that's all. You know I like you being here."

"And I love being here, and until you get sick of me, or I get bored, I plan to stay a while yet. I can't promise more than that."

"Fair enough." The sun was right down now, and the energy efficient lights were glowing gently, casting an even, low light over the pool and the patio. "Hungry?"

Methos considered. "I suppose so. It's really too hot to eat - to eat hot food anyway."

"The fish can be eaten cold and I've made avocado salad. And sorbet."

"Ah, now you're talking." The fruit production had inspired Mac to find ways of using the bounty, and sorbets and ice-creams and frozen yoghurts were always welcome in the heat. "Want me to come inside?"

"No, stay and keep cool. I can cook the fish in a flash, and bring things out to you." But Methos was hauling himself out.

"Let me help. Faster that way, and we can get back in the water." He grabbed one of the towels they always kept by the pool and wrapped it around his slim hips, tossing another to Mac who had come out of the water too.

It had been many years since Methos had got in his way in the kitchen - they moved together in a way that would be the envy of many a chef, Mac was sure, and the meal was ready and back out on the patio in exactly seven minutes. The wine was in the cooler, and Mac poured out a glass each, before sipping the fruity white appreciatively. Australian wines weren't exactly unknown to him, but he had been astonished by the quality and variety of vintages which never made it to America or Europe. Methos had happily joined in him in the apparently endless task of sampling every single different type they could lay their hands on.

The light meal was eaten quickly - it was too hot to linger over it - and they digested over the remaining wine, listening to the crickets and the whine of mosquitoes, the frequent zap of the bug catchers, and the occasional squeal of possums and fruit bats in the garden. Methos had been sanguine about the wildlife predation upon his plants, instead making something of a study of the visitors. There seemed little about his Australian sojourn that he didn't take to enthusiastically.

Wistfully, Mac wondered what Joe would have made of it all, but said nothing to Methos of his thoughts. They rarely spoke about Joe - Methos' grief was still very deep, even after all this time. Occasionally he would make a comment about a piece of music being one of Joe's favourites when they heard it, or mention that he had last tried such and such with Joe, but that was it. Mac respected his need for privacy and while Methos seemed otherwise so happy, he could see no harm in his lack of interest in talking about his late husband.

"So, what are you planning for Christmas? They're selling ham legs down town."

Mac came back to himself - he'd been lost in memories. "Oh, uh - to be honest, I haven't thought about it. It's too hot to think about cooking."

"We could book a restaurant if we can find a place."

"Too hot for that too, and besides, I think the only decent place that's open is full. I'm sure I saw the sign."

Methos shrugged. "I could cook, Mac. If you're not feeling that interested, let me take over."

"If you like. It's no big thing for me."

That earned him a sharp look, and the 'since when?' was unsaid but not unspoken. But then Methos let it be. He collected their plates and went inside to get their dessert, leaving Mac to think about the last time he'd really celebrated Christmas.

It was with Methos and Joe in Surrey, the year before his mortal friend had died. Mac had been dumped by his then girlfriend who had announced a week prior to their planned visit that she had found someone more interesting and closer to her own age. Nursing wounded pride and a slightly dented heart, he'd almost cancelled going to see them. Joe had called him in Paris and torn him a new one, bullying and cajoling him into getting his ass into gear and over to the comfortable house in Surrey where they had lived for ten years.

It had been great. Methos was in a sparkling mood, Joe's ill health not too much in evidence, and he was in rare form. They had made Mac an impromptu concert, Joe on his guitar, of course, and Methos on the keyboard. Joe had sung all night, Methos had harmonised from time to time, and Mac had sat back and enjoyed the whole evening more than any Christmas since Tessa had died so long before. They had eaten and drunk well, talked until the wee hours, and wrapped themselves in a warm, tolerant friendship that was unique in even Methos' long experience, or so he'd said.

But then Joe had died, and Mac had returned to ignoring a holiday which more and more just seemed to remind him of all the people he'd lost. Too many friends, too many near family members, dead and gone. He wondered that Methos could stand to talk about Christmas, but then the holiday was a fairly recent phenomenon by his lights, Mac supposed.

"Mac, you're in a hell of a funk tonight. Is there something I need to know about, either as your business partner or as your friend?"

Mac went to take the already melting bowl of lemon and mango sorbet from Methos' hand. "No, I'm fine, really."

Methos held the bowl out of his reach. "Really. Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Give me that."

"Got a better idea. Let's eat it in the pool. I'm sick of being eaten by fucking mosquitoes. We should get this patio screened, Mac."

The 'we' pleased Mac inordinately, and he had a flash of inspiration about a Christmas present for Methos, which in turn had the effect of cheering him out of his sombre mood. "That's a good idea. You can cost that for me too and we'll do it. Let's get in the pool."

They planted themselves on the pool steps, the water lapping at their chests, eating the icy cold dessert. Methos waved his spoon at Mac. "You could sell this, you know. Make your fortune all over again."

"No fear, not the way Aussies cook. You still aren't used to the standards out here."

Methos pantomimed shock. "God in heaven, MacLeod is admitting to being a lesser talent in something."

Mac kicked him on the leg under the water, but it carried no force. "Hey, there are lots of things I can't do. Sing, for one thing. Gardening's another."

"You're too lazy to garden, that's different." Methos put his bowl on the pool edge and then slid further under the water. "God, this is such decadence. After all those years in Paris and England, and all that time, this pool was sitting here, waiting for me."

"Do you love me or the pool?"

"Sorry, Mac, ten thousand litres of warm water beat you hands down." But he grinned as he floated away.

They endured three more days of heat. The situation state-wide had become critical, and bushfires had broken out all over the place, although not close to Caboolture. A state of emergency had been called. Businesses had ground to a halt, the government was officially advising people to stay indoors and away from work. Fifty people had died as a direct result of the temperatures.

With the dojo closed, all Mac and Methos could do was hunker down, swimming, reading and trying not to exert themselves. They were sprawled in the lounge room, each naked except for a pair of shorts, bowls of ice-cream on their chests, too hot even to complain about the heat. Mac hated air-conditioning, but even if he had decided to change his mind about it, there wasn't a unit for hire or purchase for love or money within a hundred-kilometre radius. Methos, somewhat to his surprise, had never even mentioned the idea, just enduring the heat with an abundance of wise cracks and a few surprisingly sensible suggestions about making them both comfortable. Once this heat wave was over and they could all think again, Mac was going to set his clever friend to work redesigning not only the dojo but the house too.

A rumble of thunder shattered the heavy silence. "Oh thank _god_ for that," Methos said, sitting up. "It's nearly over. Is everything clear in the garden?"

"I made sure it was all secure. Relax, Methos, you're worse than me sometimes." Still, Methos got up to make sure the windows on the prevailing side were shut.

The back door slammed, and the next thing he heard was a massive thunderclap followed by the drumming of rain on the roof. The change in pressure and temperature was instantaneous.

The driving rain roared overhead, and Methos wandered over to the window to watch,; he seemed never to tire of the power of tropical storms. Mac collected their bowls and put them in the sink, then joined Methos at the window. "Hell of a show," he said, as another huge flash of lightning illuminated the yard.

"It sure is. What the fuck is that?" Methos said, startled as the pounding on the roof became deafening. At the same time, the rain changed quality, solidified.

"Hail," Mac said briefly. "That's what they were predicting."

Methos goggled. "That's not hail, Mac. Hail is frozen rain drops - those are fucking golf-balls!"

"Could be softballs later, so Steven was telling me."

Methos seemed awe-struck by the drama playing out in front of them, but then he turned to Mac. "So much for the tomatoes," he said ruefully. A crash sounded through the room.

"So much for our windows," Mac muttered. There wasn't much he could do until the storm ended - the last bad hail storm he'd seen had been mercifully brief, so he hoped they wouldn't lose too much glass.

Within minutes the front yard was covered with hail, but it stopped falling within ten minutes, leaving only the torrential rain. As soon as it eased, Mac touched Methos' shoulder. "I'd better check on the dojo, make sure it's not being flooded."

"Wait, let me help."

Mac nodded and found two torches for them. It was still raining, but their waterproofs kept them dry. They went in opposite directions around the building, and met up again. "Anything?" Mac shouted over the thunder.

"No, all secure, let's see if the shed and the house are okay."

Apart from the broken window in the laundry they already knew about, there was no other structural damage, although the amount of torn leaves and broken branches meant that Methos would have a lot of tidying up to do.

They dumped the waterproofs in the laundry. Mac thought about putting plastic over the broken window, but decided not to bother - a little rain was coming in, but the water was running down the central drain and causing no problem. It could wait until morning.

It was much cooler in the house now, and for the first time in days, it wasn't an effort to breathe. Without asking, he poured them both a long cold fruit juice over ice. "Sorry about the garden," he said to Methos, handing him the drink.

Methos shrugged. "Shit happens. Anyway, it was almost worth it to see that hail - something new for a five thousand year old man doesn't come along every day."

They settled on the couch together. "You've known heat like this before? When you were younger?" Mac asked.

"I can't really remember what it was like when I was a child, but heat is more familiar than cold. Hail like that though. Unbelievable...."

"Makes talking about the weather a whole new thing, doesn't it?"

"Everything about this country is new to me. I can't believe I managed to avoid coming out here for so long. It's paradise."

"Not exactly. But close enough."

"Close enough," Methos repeated softly.

Mac wondered where Methos disappeared to then. He looked suddenly wistful, and Mac couldn't resist. He dropped a gentle hand on the back of Methos' neck and began to massage. "That's nice," Methos murmured, lowering his head and giving Mac room to work, and then let Mac pull him close.

Mac could guess what might have sparked the introspection - he was probably thinking how much Joe would have liked Australia. God knew how often Mac had had the same thought about Richie. "Sleep with me tonight?" he asked.

"Okay. I need a shower first." He kissed Mac's cheek then left for his own flat to use the bathroom there.

Mac followed his example - he'd got used to bathing morning and night in the summers, but during the past week they'd been constantly under either the shower or in the pool. Sweat was his constant companion - he was so glad he'd cut his hair, the thought of that heavy weight against the back of his neck made him hot to think about it, and not in a good way.

He lay on the bed, waiting for Methos, covered only by a cotton sheet - even that had been too much lately, but the air was much cooler with the storm and the still falling rain. Maybe tonight he would actually sleep. Having Methos with him would help.

He was well aware this was not usual for male friends, but Methos was hardly a usual friend. Ever since Joe had died, whenever he'd visited the Surrey house, he shared Methos' bed, and Methos had done the same when he'd come to stay with Mac in Paris.

Still, it wasn't something that had happened often since Methos had moved out here. The last time had been a few months ago when Methos had gone very quiet all day, and Mac had found him, ostensibly working in the shed on the lawn mover but really staring into space, his eyes suspiciously wet and his cheeks flushed. It was only when Mac realised the date - Joe's birthday - that he realised what was going on. He had extended his hand and the invitation to his bed, and Methos had joined him without a word. The next day, he was himself again.

Methos walked in, completely and unselfconsciously nude. "You have to wonder how Aussies ever get together to breed," he joked. "No wonder all the population is down south - it's too hot to fuck up here."

"They seem to manage."

Methos yawned as he got under the sheet and curled around Mac. "I'm tired," he announced.

"Me too. Do you think you could come up with a way of making the house cooler?"

He began to trace lazy circles on Methos' back. "Mmmm, yeah. A verandah for a start. Vines. Punkahs? If we can get a wallah to punk?" he added mischievously.

"Could add that to your office duties."

"Okay. Find me a dhoti and a grass mat, and I can sit like Ghandi pulling the string with my toe like the best of them." He yawned again. "'S nice, what you're doing."

"Methos?"

"Mmmm?"

"Does this ever bother you?"

"Sleeping together? Nope."

"Never?"

"Nope. Guilty pleasure is an oxymoron in my book."

"It's just you never ... you know, ask. For yourself."

Methos tilted his head so he could look into Mac's eyes. "Actually, there is one thing about this that bothers me."

"What?" Mac said in sudden alarm, sensitized to any hint that this habit was in any way unwelcome.

"It's that you only seem to ask when you think I need it."

"I don't...."

"Yeah, you do. If you think I'm moping, I can guarantee you'll ask me in here. But if something's bothering you, I know you won't."

"You could ask me," Mac pointed out.

"Yes. But, Mac, I've taken over your house, your garden and your business. I figured the least I could do would be to let you do the inviting to your bed."

Mac didn't know whether to smile or be a little sad at this. "I wish I didn't have to," he admitted.

"To do what?"

"Invite you. Like it was anything to make a big deal about. You're always welcome here, everywhere."

Methos smiled at him, then kissed Mac's chest before resting his head back down. "I know. If I didn't know that, I wouldn't be here or anywhere else. Are you saying you want me to sleep here all the time?"

"I'm saying that I'll tell you if I need it, if you'll take it for granted that you can come in here anytime you want, without an invitation, or without a reason. Deal?"

"Deal." Methos' hand drifted down the planes of Mac's stomach. "I think I figured out what was bothering you the other day."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. It's Christmas, isn't it."

Mac sighed. "Yeah. But I don't want to make an issue out of it."

"No, I understand. But I think sitting around here resolutely not celebrating it is likely to be worse than gritting your teeth and pretending you're having a good time. How about we take your boat down to the bay for a couple of days? Camp out?"

"Hell, it'll be full of drunken weekend sailors, Methos. Got a better idea - let's go up to Noosa. We can go to the National Park and do some surf fishing, and swimming too. We won't even need to stay overnight - you're forgetting it's school holidays, all the camping sites will be full."

"True enough. Noosa sounds good. Maybe when the holidays are over, we could spend a week on Fraser?"

"You're forgetting the dojo."

"Fuck the dojo."

Mac slapped Methos' bum reprovingly. "Enough of that. It's my bread and butter."

"Our bread and butter and we haven't had a holiday in two years."

"You said it was paradise not half an hour ago, Methos. You don't need holidays in Paradise."

"Hoist by my own petard. Okay. No holidays. Ever, ever, ever. No fishing, no camping, no hiking ... shit, Mac, do you listen to yourself sometimes?"

Mac just grinned. Methos was more of a workaholic than he was. The hours he'd put into the business and the garden were well above what any normal employee would consider reasonable. "I thought you were tired."

"I am."

"Then shut up and go to sleep."

"Yes, mum."

 

* * *

Mac found he was alone when he woke, the usually noisy dawn chorus of magpies and the occasional kookaburras in full bellow. Methos being up and about didn't surprise him - if you were serious about gardening in this climate, you had to make the most of the cool mornings, such as they were. He pulled on a pair of shorts and went in search. He found his friend contemplating the extensive destruction of his vegetable patch. Around him lay broken branches from the mango and frangipani trees, and furled hibiscus blooms like dead birds at his feet. "Anything salvageable?" Mac asked.

"Quite a lot. It looks worse than it is. The windmill's okay, I've already checked that. I'm more worried about the solar panels - I was about to go on the roof and check. Want to come up?"

They hauled out the ladder and Methos went first up onto the roof. "Thank God you don't have tiles. There's nothing missing up here," he called, then made his way over to the heating and power banks. Mac waited for his report. "They look fine, Mac. So long as they're charging up, I assume we got off lightly."

Not so the rest of southern Queensland which had been hit by a series of violent electrical storms, which had wrought a massive amount of destruction. The only good thing was that the bush fires had been brought under control by the rain, but the break in the heat had been accompanied by a huge clean-up bill. Listening to the news, Mac made a decision. "I'm going to keep the dojo closed until after Christmas - I was going to shut for a week any way, but people will be too tied up with this."

Methos agreed. "If you're serious about making modifications to it, now would be a good time to draw up plans and do any maintenance."

"You'll never get a designer before New Year, or an architect."

His friend grinned. "Mac, all we need is up here," he said, tapping his skull.

"All right, but it's your risk as well as mine."

"I swear you won't lose a cent on this, Mac. Trust me."

They spent the next two days cleaning up the yard, and painting some of the dojo woodwork. Methos rapidly drew up some draft plans on his computer, and with a bit of research on the Internet, and some calls, gave Mac the good news. It wasn't going to be as expensive as Mac feared, and by working on the one day a week the dojo closed, they should be able to install the fountains and water features Methos was convinced would make the place cooler. Mac approved since it would improve the atmosphere and aesthetics as well - he was acutely aware that both of the martial arts studios he had owned would never win any award for beauty, and Methos' ideas would greatly enhance the overall appeal of the structure.

There wasn't a great deal other than repairs they could carry out before the entire country shut down for the Christmas break, and at three o'clock the second day, when they had stopped for a cool drink and a snack, Methos called a halt, insisting that Mac get ready for their dinner date. This was Mac's first hint that he wasn't being taken to any ordinary restaurant, and he grinned to himself at Methos' poorly concealed mixture of anxiety and anticipation. All Mac knew was that they had to go into central Brisbane, and that smart casual clothes were sufficient. That told him nothing - most restaurants would happily accept less than black-tie.

They caught the electric train into Central Station and walked down to the quay. Mac saw the mooring sign. "The 'Mahalia '? How the _hell_ did you swing that?" The floating restaurant and blues club was booked out a year in advance.

Methos tapped his nose. "I have my contacts, Mac."

Mac refused to walk another step until he got the full story and Methos sighed. "All right, I booked it eighteen months ago. It's not rocket science. I have plenty of experience of waiting for things, after all."

Mac squeezed his arm, pleased beyond measure at Methos going to all this trouble for him. "Thank you, Methos. I've wanted to try this since I got out here, but never got the chance. Never had the right person to bring here, anyway."

Methos flushed, then looked away. "We'd better hurry - they leave at six, sharp."

There were other floating restaurants, but none as small and exclusive and highly rated as the Mahalia, the combination of the best food to be had for money, and a succession of glamorous and famous singers in the intimate dinner lounge, making the cruiser the most desirable - and most unattainable - evening destination in the state.

Mac saw the tension in Methos leach as Mac continued to tell the older Immortal how touched and pleased he was at the gift. He had to wonder why Methos was so concerned about his approval, but then if he'd been the one to plan such an elaborate present, perhaps he would have been equally nervous.

The atmosphere inside was surprisingly relaxed, despite the long wait the clientele had had to get there, and the number of well-known faces Mac spotted in the crowd. They were steered to a table for two - all the tables were carefully arranged to be near a window, with the musical performers on a suspended platform in the centre of the room which was raised and lowered out of the way depending on whether there was an act playing or not.

It was a set menu, to Mac's surprise - the person making the booking had to alert the staff to any dietary requirements, but beyond that, part of the experience was allowing the chef to make inspired guesses. And inspired, they truly were. The boat began its stately movement down the Brisbane River towards the bay where they would moor for a couple of hours before returning for the hour or so journey back up to the city. The first course, one of ten that would be served, was brought. Small, exquisite bites of fish and wasabi paste, and a white wine Mac had not encountered before. As the two Immortal enjoyed the delicacies, the first entertainer began to softly fill the boat with the sensuous sounds of the blues.

"Now I know why people are prepared to wait," Mac said, toasting his companion. "This is one classy place."

"It is, isn't it? And nice to eat someone else's cooking." Mac stared at him and Methos realised his mistake. "Mac, I meant, for you. You, doing all the cooking like you do."

Mac smiled. "It's okay, I know what you mean. You could cook - you do cook."

"I was just thinking - you know, not getting stale, trying new things ... it's how we keep the will to live."

Mac touched his hand. "I think there's no chance of me getting stale with you around. That's the main reason I like having you here."

"Oh." Methos found his food suddenly fascinating and Mac quickly re-examined what he'd said.

"You make life interesting, challenging. Fun. You make a good thing better. Stop me when I've abased myself enough."

Methos grinned. "Okay, you can stop. Really?"

"Yes, really, stop fishing for compliments. She's great, isn't she?" he said, indicating the tiny woman wrapping the sound of her magical voice around them.

"Greater than great."

The evening was ... romantic, it was the only way to describe it. Everything fit, felt good. The conversation with someone he shared a house with still seemed fresh and new, and the sounds, the tastes, the scenery fit their mood perfectly, letting the night flow slow and warm and gentle over them.

Coffee and brandy, and some ingenious chocolate confection they amused themselves for minutes trying to work out the ingredients and recipe for, was the final course as they came down past the airport and the exclusive residences of the Hamilton reach. The last act was an American woman, as tall and strong boned as the first singer had been tiny and porcelain-like, with a voice like an organ in a cathedral. She'd chosen to have the stage lowered right to the floor, but she still dominated the room. Mac was mesmerised by how her long, dark-skinned hands wove in the air as she sang, her whole body like a moving sculpture, turning to the wonderful music she was creating.

The evening was drawing to an end, and the singer, who was called Tara, announced they would be docking soon. "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for being here tonight," she said softly, in a husky Southern accent. "For my last song, I'd like to sing you something I heard a few years ago, when I was touring in England. I went to a little blues club just outside London and there was a guy there who sang like an angel, and played guitar like a god. He sang this song that night, and I'd like to sing it for you now. This is 'Older Eyes', by the late, great Joe Dawson."

Mac hastily gripped Methos' hand, knowing this was the last thing the older immortal would have expected. Methos had gone white, frozen into total stillness, his eyes seemingly unable to look away from the singer, whose voice, so unlike Joe's, nonetheless fit the song as if it had been written for her. It had actually been written for Methos. Of all the songs....

He needed to get off this boat and get Methos away from the pain he must be feeling, but they were trapped, and Methos would never have forgiven him if he'd caused a scene. All he could do was hold Methos' icy hand and pretend he couldn't see the occasional tear slipping, ignored, down Methos' tanned cheek.

He never realised what a long song it was before, and he was intensely relieved when it finally ended. They were the only people in the room not applauding wildly. Mac didn't know what to say, so he kept holding Methos' hand until his friend turned a damp face back towards him. "That was beautiful," he murmured. "Joe would have been so proud."

"Maybe you should introduce yourself."

"No, Mac. Adam Dawson is dead. It's enough she remembers Joe." He returned Mac's firm grip and freed his hand. "He got his Immortality after all," he said, smiling, even though tears threatened again.

"So long as people love good music, Methos. So long as even one person remembers it."

"Yes. He would have loved this, all of it."

"He would have been better."

"Maybe. But that's not the point."

They didn't speak for the few remaining minutes of the trip, and walked in silence off the boat, only nodding to acknowledge the staff saying farewell to the diners. Methos had booked them a room, rather than risk a late night train journey back to Caboolture, and they walked along the riverside to the Heritage Hotel. It was another hot night, but not muggy as it had been. Despite the hour, there were plenty of people around enjoying the fine night - lovers, groups of friends, the odd drunk or three, getting an early start on the traditional Christmas booze-up.

Mac slung his arm around Methos' shoulders and hugged him briefly before walking on. "Thank you for the evening, Methos. It was great. Sorry about the end."

Methos stopped and made him turn. "Don't be. I thought I was the only one ... who remembered him. Can't you see? There will be people who hear that woman sing, and learn that song, and they'll pass it from one to another. And Joe's spirit lives on. I'm feeling a little awestruck, that's all."

Mac pulled him close. Words seemed inadequate to express his feelings, so he let his embrace speak of what he wanted to say, of his affection, his own pride and sadness in the friend they had lost. There seemed no end to the gifts Joe had given them.

The room was a double, with two large beds, either of which would sleep three friendly people. It looked out over the river on which they had been cruising. Methos wandered around, nodding approvingly at the decor and features.

"Nice hotel," Mac said.

"Not bad." He stood in front of the bar fridge, examining the minibar."Want a nightcap?"

"No. Methos, I've got something for you. Could you come on over here?"

Puzzled, Methos joined him as he sat on the edge of the bed. "A gift?"

"Yeah, well, we decided we weren't doing Christmas, and I wanted you to have this. Here."

He shoved the envelope at Methos, then stood to strip off his jacket and hang it up. It was strange not to carry his sword, but coats were completely out in this climate, and he figured with the two of them, they could defer a Challenge until they could get to their weapons. He hadn't actually met a head-hunter out here at all - he had a theory that the heat sapped the aggression right out of them.

"Mac? I don't understand."

Methos was holding the piece of paper out, his brow creased in confusion. "It's all the rent you've paid, Methos. I don't want it."

His friend's face went a little cold. "I don't need your money, MacLeod, and whatever you think, I pay my way."

Mac sat down next to him, and took Methos' wrist in a gentle but firm grip. "That's not the message I want you to get. A man doesn't pay rent in his own home. My home is your home, and always will be. You are not a guest, not a tenant. And I've made that official."

He picked up the other sheet of paper Methos had ignored. "This is a copy of the deed. Your name is on it now."

Obviously stunned into silence, Methos took the copy and looked at it then up at him. "Mac ...," he said in a husky voice. "I don't know what to say ... you realise with this, all you'd have to do would be to put me as the beneficiary of your will, and we'd be married by the laws of this state."

"I can't do that, Methos."

"I was joking...."

"Because you've been the main beneficiary of my will for over thirty years."

Methos' mouth moved, but no sounds came out. He looked about to shred the paper in his hands, so Mac gently removed it. "Too much?" he asked, afraid he had overstepped some personal boundary.

"Yes ... no... Duncan, I really don't know what to say. I'm ... honoured.... amazed ... but I don't know why you've done this."

"Because I realised that you have made my house our home, and I can't imagine life without you in it. Wherever you go, whatever you do, I want you to know, you will always have a home with me. "

"Until you marry."

"I thought you said we are married."

"This isn't a joke, Mac. What happens when you find the right woman?"

"The woman - or man - will have to accept your place in my home and my heart, or I'll know they aren't the right person after all." Methos stood up and turned away to the window. He was silent for so long, Mac started to worry, then he saw the broad shoulders shaking. "Methos?" He was with his friend in two quick strides and pulling the weeping man to him. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you." He stroked Methos' back, whispering soothing words. Damn, he'd got this wrong. Methos didn't need the burden of unwanted ties.

"Let's just forget about it," he said. "I'm sorry, it was the wrong to do...."

"Fucking stupid Scot," he heard against his ear.

"Pardon me?" he said stiffly

"The _wrong_ thing to do? You give me your home and your affection, and you think that's the _wrong_ thing to do?" Methos glared at him out of a tear-streaked face.

"But you're upset."

"You've pulled the feet from out under me. Second time tonight that's happened. Just let me catch my breath." Methos caught his face in his hands. "You are, without doubt, the most unpredictable, generous man I have ever known. Why the hell you want me around is a complete mystery to me."

"I guess I'm just easily amused," Mac said, quoting back one of Methos' favourite expressions and making him laugh. "So you're not mad?"

"No, Duncan MacLeod. I am not mad. Thank you. From the bottom of my very old, very battered heart."

"Good," Mac said, pulling him close and squeezing him. "Let's go to bed."

"Mac," Methos said, not letting him free. "I'd like a favour."

"Anything, Methos, you know that."

"Could we make love tonight?"

He'd never asked before. The first time they'd had sex, it was after Joe's death, a purging of desperate anguish which had left Methos guilt-ridden and hating himself until Mac had pulled him from his despair. The second time was just before Mac had left Paris, when they had both got horribly drunk with Amanda and her latest lover, and the giggling and silliness had led to eager, tipsy fumbling, and a gentle, unhurried joining that neither had regretted.

But they had never done this, with intent aforethought, but, "Yes," Mac said without hesitation. "Yes, Methos. I'd like that."

Methos leaned into to him, and without hurry, or anxiety, kissed him gently. "Let me use the bathroom. I won't be long," he said, caressing his cheek.

Mac undressed slowly, searching for the hesitation, the sense of wrong-footedness that surely must be appropriate for these circumstances, and could find none. Not even the place where it should be. It seemed the most natural thing in the world. More than that, the most right thing they could do just now. They spent nearly forty years of a long, often troubled friendship to get there, and Mac knew that if Methos has been female, they would have been making love almost since he came out to Australia.

"Mac?"

He turned. "Yes, come to bed." He took Methos' outstretched hand and was led over to one of the two double beds. "What have you got there?"

Methos uncurled his other hand and revealed a small tube of lubricant, no doubt from the autodispenser in the bathroom. "Twenty-first century hotels are so damn convenient, don't you think?"

"Makes a change from worrying about the maid finding the condoms in the wastepaper basket."

"Yeah, now they worry if they don't find them."

"We don't need them, but I'll be happy to open and scatter a few around if you like."

"Duncan, I was offering to make love with you, not re-enact the last days of Pompeii."

"My mistake," he said, grinning. Methos sat next to him, and just looked for a long moment, before lifting his hand and gently stroking down Mac's cheek with the backs of his fingers.

"You're okay with this? It's another boundary gone."

"I don't want boundaries between us, Methos. Between you and me, I don't want to hide any more."

"You know, that's how I felt about Joe. Mac, you're the only other person I've ever been able to share everything with. What does that say about me?"

Mac put his arms around him, and lay his cheek against Methos' face. "I think it says you're very old, and have a lot to lose by giving everything. I understand, Methos. It's okay to be like you."

"Better to be like you."

"Two of me? You think the world's ready for that?"

Methos laughed quietly, his breath warm against Mac's ear. "No, sadly, I don't think it is. Mr MacLeod, are we going to talk or make love?"

Mac lifted Methos' hand, and licked the palm, making him shiver. "What do you think?" he growled softly.

\---

The languor of really good sex was still on him - on them both, if Methos' reluctance to get up was anything to go by - and it was late by Australian standards before they showered, and redressed in their speedicleaned clothes. The hotel where they'd stayed was famous for its food, so they treated themselves to breakfast in the riverside cafe, before walking up the mall and through King George Square to the train station. Methos didn't say much, but he smiled a lot, and it seemed to Mac that they bumped hips or brushed hands a measurable amount more than the previous day.

"You're looking pleased with yourself," Methos said as the train pulled away. It was an easy hour back to Caboolture, and the carriage was empty - all the traffic was headed into town.

"Traditional look of the well laid male, didn't you know?"

"Not lately," Methos shot back. "So, on a scale to one to ten, how did you rate this year's birthday?"

"Fifteen, of course," Mac said promptly. Methos grinned, then looked away as if he was a little embarrassed. "I'm not exaggerating."

"I know, but I'm childish enough to like hearing you saying it."

Mac picked his car up at Caboolture station and drove back to the house. As they pulled up, he saw something was lying in the front yard. "What the hell? Do you know about this?"

"I think so." Mac put the car in the shed then crossed the grass to the kayak - brand new, two-seater kayak - which some pixie had deposited in the garden. "Happy birthday."

"But you gave me my present last night," Mac protested, then blushed slightly as he realised how that sounded. "This is too much, Methos."

"Well, it's really your Christmas present, but like you said, we aren't doing that, so I got Steven to deliver it while we were out. It's a two-part gift. Here," he said pulling a slip from his pocket.

Mac looked at it, and smiled when he realised. "Cooloola National Park? That's a great idea - when did you get the permit?"

"Oh, last week when you were talking about Noosa - I thought it might be fun to go onto Lake Cootharaba instead, avoid the holiday makers and then head up into the National Park. No crowds since they limit the numbers, but as it happens, there were plenty of permits left. I think the heat wave must have put people off."

Mac examined the smart, ultra modern kayak with pleasure. It was spacious enough to take two tall men and their gear, but light enough for one man to lift easily through the shallows. "I thought we could drive up to Elanda Point and leave the car there, and set off."

"When were you thinking of leaving?"

"Tomorrow? If you don't have any plans?"

"But the dojo ...."

Methos made a 'settle down' patting motion. "I've already asked Pat to take the call switching - she can field enquiries." Mac nodded - that was fine, the booking system could be operated from anywhere in the country, and those few people who didn't book on the Net, and preferred to call, would find a friendly efficient person at the other end. They didn't care that she lived in Nambour. "And Steven said he'd keep an eye on the place, so there's no reason we can't go straight away. We just need supplies."

"Tent? The other gear?" Mac had never got around to resupplying himself with the sort of camping supplies he'd had in Seacouver.

"All inside."

"Methos, you must have spent a fortune on all this."

"Well, fortunately, I have this very generous friend who's just waived all my rent for two years," he said, grinning.

"Yeah, but you didn't know that...."

"Didn't your Mum tell you never to ask the cost of a present, Mac?"

"She did, and I apologise. It's a wonderful gift."

"Not as wonderful as yours," Methos said quietly, looking at Mac with emotion filling his eyes.

"It's not a competition, Methos. Right. Let's get moving, if you want to be at Elanda Point in the morning."

Without fuss, Methos had come to his bed, just to sleep. Mac wondered (in a way that would, he well knew, get him teased unmercifully if he expressed his fears to Methos) what trouble he was storing up in his future by being so happy and content in his life now. He couldn't help it - too many times in his life when things had seemed to have reached equilibrium, when he finally had the chance of a mortal lifetime's worth of happiness, things would fall apart in the most appalling way. Being so close to another Immortal had the potential for tragedy built even more than most relationships, with the Game always hovering. Just because it had seemed to have died down to almost immeasurable levels in the last four years, didn't mean it had gone away. But if the most wary, the most cautious of them all could throw away secrecy, reveal himself to the Watchers, come out and hitch his wagon to Mac's star, what business had he to question fate in this way?

He had to seize this happiness now, if it truly could not last. Good memories buoyed Immortal lives, made them bearable, made them more than mere feats of endurance. Methos was an example to them all in how to live in the here and now. Mac smiled in the dark, into the dark hair of the man resting so trustingly on his chest. Something finally rubbed on me after all these years, he thought, before he drifted off to sleep.

They were up at four, wanting to reach Elanda Point before the day got too hot. The shading over the Noosa river would make their travel pleasant, and even though they had the vast expanses of Lake Cootharaba to cross before they reached Fig Tree Point, the breeze across the lake should keep them cool. Methos had lectured him about the area they were planning to go to, all the previous day, and was as excited as Richie used to get about bikes or girls at venturing into a part of wild (well, fairly wild) Australia. He had packed a bird guide and photobinox with the clear intention of getting some good images. Mac warned him that he expected him to row as well, and had received a very old-fashioned look in reply for his cheekiness.

Dawn was rising in its usual golden pink gorgeousness as they eased the car, kayak strapped to the roof, out of the yard and headed north. After fifteen minutes, they could see the ancient, sacred Glass House Mountains and the bowed head of the gorilla-like Mount Tibrogargan. Perhaps on the way back, Mac thought, they could detour among the mountains to savour the views which he'd heard were spectacular, but his passenger was itching to get into the National Park. It was school holidays, so the traffic was heavier than usual, but not enough to hinder them.

They pulled into the camping ground at Elanda Point just after seven, and paid to park the car for three days. Although there were plenty of holidaymakers heading across the lake, few of them were in kayaks, and even fewer of them were going up river - most would be content to zoom around the lake and make for the Coloured Sands. Anyone wanting to go to Rainbow Beach and Fraser Island would usually go by four-wheel drive, rather than the less dramatic, and more time-consuming river route.

That suited Mac perfectly. Anytime he could get away from the unwashed masses was a holiday for him, when he had company he enjoyed this much. The kayak moved with a graceful silence through the water, and its two riders were quiet too. The breeze was stiff and they had to really work once they edged out past the shelter of the point into Queensland's largest freshwater lake, ten kilometres north to south, although leaving from Elanda rather than Boreen Point had cut five kilometres off their journey.

Methos rowed in perfect synchronisation with Mac but Mac could tell he was a little distracted, searching the water. "What are you looking for?" he finally asked.

Methos glanced back. "Sharks," he said briefly.

"Methos, the water's so shallow, Jaws would be beached."

"Don't reveal your ignorance all at one go, MacLeod, save some for afters. You weren't paying attention, were you? Sharks come into the lake to get rid of parasites - they don't feed while they're in the lake. I'd just like to spot one, that's all."

Mac shook his head indulgently. Methos the naturalist took a little getting used to.

Not that one had to work that hard to see things that were difficult or impossible to see in Europe. Pelicans, sea eagles, and cormorants were all spotted several times, as were an abundance of smaller birds. The lake had at one time become all but fished out, but a banning of fishing, and a more aggressive management of the park and its surrounding waters, had brought back the fish, and the birds. The river used to be famous for its bass, now a rarity, but no one was allowed to fish on it at all any more. Even the people who used to live in the park had been encouraged to leave and there were far fewer permanent residents there than there had been when the Park had been established. The numbers of people using the waterway had been restricted by permit, and camping was fiercely policed.

They stopped at the beautiful Kinaba Island Information Centre, built from unpainted gray timber which blended with the melalueca gums and Everglades behind it, and which was partly constructed over the lake and the mangroves to allow a closer look at both by the visitors. Mac and Methos used the break to use the loos, to pick up maps, and drink from their thermos of tea before they went on. The centre itself was a pleasant break, offering bird hides and mangrove walks, and finally Mac had to drag Methos away from an in-depth conversation he had struck up with a older American couple who saw him as the fount of all knowledge and were eager to extract maximum value from their fascinating new friend. Mac was glad the couple were travelling on by foot, or he would have had to decapitate someone just to get away from the sound of birders birding.

"You just remember Adam Pierson, know all, is dead, old man," he said wagging his finger. "Michael Adams is a shy martial arts enthusiast and doesn't know his fairy wren from his arse."

"You're no fun, Mac. Anyway, even Michael Adams needs a hobby."

"Did you have to pick one that made you a target for elderly American women with voices like breaking glass?"

"She was lovely, MacLeod. I told them to drop in on us if they get down our way."

"You didn't. Methos, please tell me you're joking... Methos? Methos!"

The back of that man's head could be as aggravating as the rest of him, Mac decided.

The plan was to break for lunch and use the facilities at the former forestry camp and popular camping site of Harry's Hut, and to do a little walking from there before continuing on to one of the smaller camping areas further north up the river. Their quiet conversation stilled as they entered the eerie dark waters of the Noosa, the brown water stained by the tannin from the melaleuca gums. The reflections on the river were almost perfect, an artefact of the extremely slow draft of the river, which had also made it formerly such a famous bass fishing area.

"It's unbelievable," Methos whispered, almost to himself. Kingfishers flashed blue as they dove for prey, and the mysterious shadows of the melaleuca forest could have hidden anything. The river was cool, and they made an unscheduled stop for a swim in water so clean and pure it was like being in a liquid crystal. The temperature was perfect for swimming and they didn't hurry themselves.

Methos let the tea-coloured water pour through his fingers. "It should smell," he said.

"All I can smell is the gum trees," Mac said. "The water's clean enough to drink without boiling, or so they said."

"You'd almost think it could cure the sick," Methos said, before dipping his head in the water again for a last time before climbing out reluctantly, shaking off the drops and getting back into the kayak.

"Well, the sharks know what they're doing, for sure," Mac agreed. He too, almost wished they need go no further, but he knew there was no camping here, and there were pleasures waiting for them up the river.

\---

Mac felt the pleasant tiredness that came from a hard day's exertion as he sat by the campfire, cooking the vacuum packed steaks, the one real luxury they'd allowed themselves. The rest of the trip they would rely on dehydrated and dry foods, not that this was the hardship it might have been twenty years earlier, with the improvements in the technology. They would even be able to have hamburgers, of a kind. Methos was making billy tea and damper, purely because he insisted it was traditional, although Mac thought damper was inferior to bannocks and a damn sight more trouble. Slathered in jam and tinned butter, it tasted okay, he had to admit, and carrying fresh bread was a nuisance.

Their campsite was open to the stars. They didn't have it all to themselves, but their nearest neighbours, a young couple, were at least two hundred metres away, and were not disturbing the peace. The night was hardly quiet though, with the thrum of insects, the constant rustle of the crepuscular and nocturnal animals moving around, and the occasional scream of fruitbats squabbling.

The stars still looked unfamiliar to Mac, even after three years, and he wondered how long he would have to be on this ancient continent before he thought of it as truly home. He wasn't homesick for Paris, or Seacouver, but he did occasionally get twinges of longing for Scotland, and the gentler scenery of Britain. Not often, and not seriously. To be Immortal and to dwell in nostalgia was to die, often literally. The survivors were adaptable people. They had to be.

Methos had finished messing with his share of the cooking, and had sliced up part of the damper to accompany the coleslaw and steak. He handed Mac a cup of tea, then sprawled on his side, staring into the light of the propane stove as he sipped his own brew. Mac could reach him and did so, stroking his hair gently with his free hand. Methos looked up briefly and smiled in acknowledgement of what he was doing, then went back to peering at the bright light. "Never thought I would miss camping," he said reflectively. "I was so bloody glad when I could count on living with a roof over my head, I never wanted to sleep outside ever again."

"Joe wouldn't go camping anyway," Mac said.

"No. I mean, he _could_ but it wasn't something he would have enjoyed. He liked people. Getting away from it all was his idea of hell. He wanted to spend his vacations touring music spots, meeting musicians, getting to see new faces. I liked that too. But I like this."

Mac 'hmmmed' a little in agreement. "Yours is done," he announced after a minute. Methos liked his steak a little rarer than Mac did. He sat up and Mac dropped it onto the waiting plate, but did not start until Mac's was done also.

The meal was disposed of quickly - Methos' appetite had obviously been as stimulated as Mac's had been by the fresh air and the exertion - and even the damper didn't taste as plain as it usually did to Mac. There was nothing bland about Sally's native plum jam, that was for sure.

He belched, because it made Methos grin, and took his plate off him - they would be stored in a plastic bag overnight and washed in the morning. He tweaked the propane lamp, then poured himself another mug of the strong tea Methos had made, and which was only drinkable with a couple of spoons of sugar. He settled himself behind Methos, so he could pull the other man close. Methos leaned back against him, and Mac began to kiss the back of his neck. Methos sighed softly, and his weight grew heavy as he relaxed.

"Want to make love?" Mac whispered in his ear.

"Mmmm. That'd be nice." He turned so he could kiss Mac on the lips, and then on the jaw and down his throat, his hands rubbing carefully across Mac's t-shirt covered nipples, raising them into sensitive peaks. Mac massaged Methos' hard back, his hand slipping under Methos' shirt and finding the soft warm skin there. "Don't fucking tickle me," Methos warned, just as Mac got close to his danger zone.

"Me?"

"Mac, you can never resist a Challenge."

Mac laughed, and kissed his hair. He loved the feel of Methos' hair. It was soft under his hand, the bristles of his buzz cut prickling slightly only at the nape where it was shortest.

He loved the feel of Methos in his arms. He'd had encounters with men, so he knew how they felt. But he'd never expected that the angularity of Methos' body, and the spikiness of his personality at times, would translate to someone who fit him so closely in bed. And everywhere else, for that matter. There never seemed to be a moment when they were in each other's space unintentionally, or when they moved wrong. He couldn't claim the credit - Methos had been the same with Joe, and Alexa. He had a natural grace with those ... he loved ... oh, God. It was clear as the night sky. Methos loved him.

And he was loved in turn. Mac rested his chin on Methos' shoulder, and made a decision.

"Methos, marry me?"

His friend didn't move a muscle. "I thought I already did. Or rather, you married me." He couldn't see Methos' face, so all he heard was the slight levity.

"You know what I mean. _Be_ married to me."

Methos turned around so he was again held in the cradle of Mac's arms, back to chest. He didn't answer immediately, but there was nothing in the way he held his body to indicate the sudden request surprised or alarmed him. "Are you mad at me?" Mac finally asked

Methos kissed the bare forearm loosely embracing his collarbone. "No, I'm not angry. Duncan, I miss Joe."

Mac's heart sank. He had moved too fast, presumed too much. He knew Methos still grieved. How long had he, Mac, grieved for Tessa? How long had Methos sorrowed over his doomed relationship with Alexa, who had survived for less than a year after Methos had persuaded her to leave on their whirlwind tour of America and beyond? Thirty-five years of total love and happiness had to demand a higher toll.

"I'm sorry."

Methos twisted, and cupped the back of Mac's head so he could pull him forward and kiss him on the lips. "No, no, please understand." He turned away again, and Mac waited. It seemed a long time before the old man spoke, long minutes while Mac had time to regret his impulsiveness, and hoped that he hadn't just destroyed the ease with each other they had been so long coming to. A lifetime coming to.

"I miss Joe," Methos repeated quietly, his voice barely reaching Mac's ears, and Mac guessed he was concerned about it carrying in the night air to the other campers. "You know what it was like for me when he died. I think I really believed I would never love again."

"He was special. The best. I'm not trying to take his place, Methos."

Methos turned and moved back a little, although he took Mac's hands and held them tight. "You see, no one can, Duncan. Just as he couldn't take Alexa's. It's a different part we give to each of our lovers."

Mac was unsure where this was going. "Are you saying you're prepared to give up on love?"

"No. What I'm saying ... Mac, when you left Europe, I felt as bad in many ways as I did when you rescued me after his death. I couldn't believe I could lose two people I loved and cared for so deeply, in such a short space of time. But then you asked me to come out - I know you weren't expecting me to accept - but I thought, there's my second chance. If I never go, I will never know if we could have something more. I thought we might, given time."

"And?" Mac asked, hardly dare breathe for hoping what his answer might be.

"And, I think we do."

Mac lifted his hand and cupped Methos' cheek. "You love me? Like you loved Joe?"

"Mac, I adored Joe, deeply and completely - he was a grand passion for me. But he was also my best friend, he made my world a brighter, kinder place to be. Just as you are, as you do." Methos kissed the hand on his face. "None of this sounds like romance, does it?"

"No. It sounds like a future."

Methos' angular face was half shadowed in the lamplight, but his smile was beacon bright. "So, the answer to your question is yes. Yes, I will be married to you. If that's what you want. I will stay while you'll have me."

"I want you to stay forever."

"Forever's a very long time, Mac."

"Not," Mac said, leaning in so he could kiss Methos, and draw him close, "if you take it one day at a time." "So, tonight ...?"

"We'll be together, and if we're still together in the morning, we'll see how things go." Mac couldn't stop the silly smile that was blooming on his face. His heart felt impossibly light and free.

He began to kiss Methos' lips, and down his long throat, Mac's arms tight around him. "I think," Methos said gravely, letting himself be ravaged gently, "your proposal is acceptable, Mr MacLeod."

"Come to bed?"

"Yes," Methos whispered, his breath coming in slightly faster pants, as if he'd been exerting himself. Or was becoming aroused. He kneeled back, and rose in a single movement, pulling Mac with him, his strength always a surprise to Mac who remembered an underfed graduate student who always seemed to lurk within Methos' impressively fit frame. His hands were all over Mac, holding his head so that he could kiss him, pulling his hips closer so that they touched at every possible point. He almost made them fall in his eagerness and Mac pushed him away with a laugh.

"Slow down, Methos, we've got all night!"

"But it's our honeymoon, Mac. It's okay to be in a hurry."

Mac glanced over to the other couple at the campsite, and saw they were absorbed in their meal and paying not the slightest attention to the shenanigans going on so close by. All the same ....

"Tent, before they throw a bucket of water over us."

As obviously impatient as he was, Methos still made sure, as Mac did, that their supper things and other possessions were properly stowed so that the wildlife wouldn't steal it or come to harm through it.

Then Methos took his hand and willingly Mac allowed himself to be pulled over to where they planned to spend the night. The tent wasn't enormous, but could sleep four people (since a four person tent took almost as little room as a two person, Methos had seen no need to skimp on space). Two tall men filled it fairly well, and they were forced to slow down as they undressed or risk tangling themselves. Mac pulled off his shorts and was going to lift his shirt off when he looked at Methos, already bare, and glowing with a soft golden sheen in the low energy lamplight. "Have I got dirt on my face?" Methos asked.

"No. It just always surprises me how handsome you are. You try so hard to hide it."

Methos snorted. "One ego in the family is enough. Besides, people remember the good-looking, which is why you're such a target."

Mac stripped his shirt off, and then crawled to Methos' side. "We never talked about the Game."

"Do we need to? Don't we both know to the point of tedium what a risk we take by being together? Does it _matter_ , Mac?"

"I can't lose you to it."

Methos cupped his face gently. "Duncan, given my age, it is I who should be most worried about losing you. But if you can't bear it, please, let's stop now. My heart is already involved, but I can step back, if that's what you want. Losing you to death would be bad enough, but I don't want your affection for me killed by anxiety. That would be worse than death."

Mac turned his head and kissed Methos' palm. "You know the curse...."

"Oh, _bollocks_ , Mac! If you're going to stop this because of a gypsy's rantings hundreds of years ago, then please, do so, but don't expect me to forgive you!"

Methos' angry words were belied by the sadness in his eyes, and Mac's heart cracked. He stopped Methos' retreat by simply reaching out his arms and hugging him close. "No, don't run from me, Methos. I'm sorry. I've only been married once, and you know how that ended. You've been happily married I don't know how many times. I just want you to teach me how to make it work."

He felt the tension leave Methos' body in a rush, but the dark eyes that met his anxious searching were still sad. "The secret is to have a wonderful partner, Duncan. So I think I've made a good beginning."

"Then so have I. I haven't said it yet but I love you, Methos. This is real for me, I hope to make it real for you."

"Duncan, Duncan," he reproved, "it is real. I love you. I have for a long time. I don't want to wait any more."

"Then don't," Mac said simply, kissing him and bearing him down to the sleeping mat. "No need to wait. I'm right here with you and that's where I'm going to stay."

"That," Methos said gently, taking his lips again, "is all I was waiting for."

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written nearly twenty years ago under another pseudonym. It hasn't been revised (or reread by me) since then.
> 
> I am posting this and my other stories from this period purely so people can read them if they choose. I won't be reading comments, and don't care if you leave kudos. I'm dumping them and running.
> 
> Having said that, I worked hard on them, and I hope they still entertain someone out there.


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